


Double Play

by Pony Girl (Jackjunkie)



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 22:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackjunkie/pseuds/Pony%20Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curry is horrified when his recurring dream about shooting Heyes seems to be coming true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Play

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the zine A Small Circle of Friends 1  
> Based on the Simon & Simon episode Double Play by Michael Piller

Kid Curry pressed into the corner of the alcove, gun in hand, waiting. He listened intently, but the only sounds he heard were his labored breathing and the hammering of his own heart. He pondered his next move, his thoughts sifting methodically through his options. He chanced a quick glance around the corner.

A bullet exploded past him as he wrenched himself back behind the relative safety of the wall.

“Heyes! Heyes, are you all right?” he called, but there was no response.

Refusing to stay trapped in the corner indefinitely, the Kid flung himself toward the opposite wall while firing two shots down the open corridor to cover his crossing. The answering fire he expected did not come.

He took a moment to reload his .45. Through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, he heard running footsteps echo down the empty hallway. Whirling into the open, he fired after the shadowy figure retreating through a succession of diminishing archways.

Curry followed swiftly but carefully, his boots squeaking as he picked his way along. The smooth bareness of the walls was disrupted only by an occasional empty metal wall sconce.

Coming to a cross corridor, he paused to listen again. Silence. He chose a direction at random and moved forward.

Step by careful step, he advanced, gun before him at the ready. He held the Colt easily, comfortably, yet all his senses strained outward, fully alert to catch the tiniest sign of another presence.

Arriving at another junction, he halted, then sprang through the doorway, but there was nothing to surprise in the empty hallway but a few white mums in a vase sitting in a small niche.

Edging past it, he darted a quick glance around the next corner. Spotting movement, he pulled back, then lunged and fired. A large mirror shattered and pieces of his own reflection tumbled to the floor.

Transfixed by the sight, he stood still, listening through the tinkling of broken glass for any reaction from his adversary. A sudden creak from the staircase behind him caused him to spin and fire with deadly accuracy.

Beyond the curving wrought iron railing, his target hung a moment, spread-eagled against the wall, a look of astonishment on his familiar features, gun hanging useless in his now slack hand. Curry watched in horror as Hannibal Heyes slid down the wall and crashed down the blood-red carpeted stairs.

“No-o-o-o!” His heart-rending cry echoed through the empty halls.

“No!” he cried again, and opened his pain-filled blue eyes, not on his partner’s lifeless body, but to the sight of an ordinary hotel room.

Curry lay in bed, the covers in a tangle about his legs. He was drenched in sweat, his limp blond curls plastered to his forehead. Gradually orienting himself, he took several deep calming breaths as his gaze traveled around the room. Slowly sitting upright, he contemplated the dream and waited for the thumping of his heart to subside.

*****

Curry sat in a chair by the window, holding a revolver up to the morning light streaming through the curtains. Squinting as he peered down the empty barrel, he gave a satisfied grunt.

Across the room, Hannibal Heyes yawned and stretched, blinking in the sunshine. Brushing a lock of his brown hair back off his face, he climbed out of bed.

“Morning,” he casually greeted the familiar spectacle of his partner cleaning and oiling his gun. Heyes took a step, reaching for his pants, then stopped as something not quite right with the picture tried to register in his brain. Turning back to the Kid, he watched a task he’d seen hundreds of times before, trying to work out what was different about this time. Then it hit him. It wasn’t Curry’s own gun the Kid was holding; it was Heyes’.

With eyes rapidly losing their last vestige of sleepiness, Heyes scrutinized the table at Curry’s elbow. He noticed the heap of dirty rags next to the Kid’s Colt, which reposed snugly in its holster. The gunbelt had obviously just been cleaned and mended as well, as had the empty one lying next to it. Beneath the table stood two pairs of freshly shined boots.

“Morning,” Curry answered his partner as he finished reloading the revolver and handed it to Heyes. “Whaddya think?”

“What do I think?” Heyes accepted the gun tentatively, as if it might go off unexpectedly. “I think you’ve been up for hours.”

“Had a restless night. Couldn’t sleep,” Curry answered shortly.

“I noticed you were out when I got back from the poker game,” Heyes observed.

“Went out to get some air, decided to go for a ride,” the Kid explained without really explaining much at all. “Still wasn’t tired when I got back, so I figured I might as well make myself useful.”

“Didn’t you just clean your gun yesterday?” Heyes questioned in puzzlement. “I know you like to keep it in top condition, but that seems a little extreme, even for you—and since when did you feel called upon to check mine…?”

At Curry’s mulish expression, Heyes stopped himself. He knew that look. There’d be no getting anything out of him that way. “Never mind, I shouldn’t complain,” he finished, dropping the subject—for now.

“You shouldn’t complain,” the Kid agreed.

“You oughtta get yourself dressed.” Heyes nodded to Curry’s gunbelt and turned back to his own pants. “We got an appointment about that job this morning.”

“Heyes, I been thinkin’. How ‘bout we forget this job and go fishin’? We need some time off.”

“We need a payday is what we need,” Heyes contradicted. Buttoning his shirt, he considered the Kid’s peculiar behavior. Maybe his cousin did need some time to relax. Between the posses and the bounty hunters, he’d been kept pretty vigilant of late. They really did need that money, though. He came up with a compromise. “No, that’s all right, I’ll tell you what,” he offered. “They probably don’t need two of us for the job. If you want to go fishing, I can handle this one myself.”

“Okay,” Curry accepted the offer without hesitation. Then, clearly making an effort to feign interest, he asked, “By the way, did you find out who the job is for?”

“Oh, Althea Lamb,” Heyes answered in an off-hand manner.

Startled, Curry yanked a little too hard on his boot and nearly fell over backward. He righted himself and looked up. “Who?” he asked, unsure he’d heard the name correctly.

“Althea Lamb,” Heyes repeated with a grin. “The actress.”

The Kid leapt from his chair and buckled on his gunbelt. “The fish have waited this long, they can wait a little longer,” he changed his mind.

“Mm hmm,” Heyes murmured knowingly. The Kid never could resist a beautiful woman in need of help.

*****

“I’m so sorry to be late,” cooed a sultry voice.

Heyes and Curry got hurriedly to their feet as a blonde beauty breezed into the office. From the flowered confection that sat atop her flaxen ringlets to the black-buttoned boots glimpsed on her dainty feet, she presented an elegant vision in cream-colored watered silk. A matching reticule dangled from her gloved wrist as she held out her hands to her business manager, Gregory Peterson, who’d been briefing the two men on the job while they waited for the renowned actress to arrive.

“Come in, come in,” that gentleman greeted effusively as she pecked him lightly on each cheek. “If you weren’t late, you wouldn’t be Althea Lamb.” He smiled in the benevolent manner of a doting uncle as he patted her hand.

Though her modish attire outshone his respectable business suit, together they projected an undeniable picture of money, a pleasing prospect to men in need of that very commodity.

“Do pour me a glass of your excellent sherry, Gregory dear,” she commanded. “I had such a trying evening yesterday. I still haven’t recovered.” She touched a hand to her forehead in a faintly melodramatic gesture that called to mind her profession.

“Nothing serious, I hope,” Heyes ventured politely.

“Oh, it certainly was,”” Miss Lamb contradicted. “I absolutely refused to give another interview to that ill-bred reporter from the Herald. The last time he interviewed me, that man had the impropriety to ask if it were true that I carve a notch in my bedpost for each of my leading men who, er, succumbs to my charms.” She shuddered delicately. “That’s a gunfighter’s trick! Do I look like I would associate with gunfighters?”

“No, ma’am,” the Kid gallantly assured her. His smile proclaimed that he’d agree with her if she said that up was down. Heyes gave him an exasperated look.

“Did I ever tell you I fired the upstairs maid after that?” she addressed her manager as she sank gracefully to a seat.

Replacing the cap in the decanter, Peterson cleared his throat and changed the subject. “I’ve had a chance to get to know Smith,” indicating Curry, “and Jones here,” he gestured to Heyes as he handed a glass to the lady.

“Smith,” Heyes corrected, pointing to himself.

“I’m Jones,” Curry clarified.

“Of course,” the manager continued smoothly past the interruption, “and I’m convinced they’re the right men for the job.”

“Has Gregory told you all the dreary details?” she asked, turning to Curry, who sat down next to her on the settee. There was a magnetic quality about her, making it easy to see how she could hold an audience in thrall.

Emerging from his reverie, the Kid responded, “Ah, just that you need couriers to transport some securities from here to a bank in Mexico, that’s all.”

As they spoke, Heyes caught sight of a framed photograph on the occasional table and picked it up to examine it more closely. It was a portrait of Peterson with Norma Jean Morrow, the late opera singer. Apparently “dear Gregory” had more than one famous client.

“Well, Philip’s been terribly nasty about it all,” Althea pouted.

Putting down the photograph, Heyes inquired, “And who is Philip?”

“My former husband.”

“Not former quite yet,” corrected her manager with an upraised finger.

“My estranged husband then,” Althea agreed with a saucy smile. “You see, we’ve been going through a rather difficult divorce.”

“I’m so sorry,” Curry commiserated.

Heyes rolled his eyes.

“The courts tend to favor a husband’s rights to his wife’s assets. As Althea’s business manager, I’ve counseled her to move certain securities in her personal account out of the country until this is settled.”

“I think we can handle that,” Heyes said.

“There is one thing you should know,” said Peterson in a serious tone. “Philip has made several threats, and he wouldn’t hesitate to carry them out.”

“Philip is a military man,” Althea added. “Fighting is his life’s work, and he’s always been very… dedicated.”

“Dedicated,” the Kid mused.

“I can’t help it if I have a tendency to be attracted to men with a certain aura of danger,” Althea purred, running a finger seductively along the Kid’s arm. “Are you a devotee of the theatre, Mr. Jones?”

“Oh, yes.” He was oblivious to Heyes’ sudden coughing fit.

“It’s likely that Philip will try to stop you,” Peterson warned.

The Kid gazed deeply into Althea’s lovely eyes. “That won’t be a problem,” he averred.

“Well then, it’s settled,” Peterson declared, rising to his feet and shaking their hands to seal the arrangement. “You can pick up the documents this morning at the bank down the street.”

“Fine,” Heyes consented.

“Wonderful,” Althea gushed. “I feel so much better about all this now that I’ve met you.” She rose to her feet and the Kid followed suit. “I hate to hurry away, but I must dash to a charity benefit I’m doing for the local orphanage.”

“Oh, how kind of you,” Curry commended.

The actress grasped her manager’s hands and pecked his cheeks again in farewell. “You be sure and pay them generously,” she admonished.

“And I’ll thank you personally when you return,” she told Heyes, warmly taking his hand and pecking his cheeks as well.

“Good-bye,” he smiled, unable to resist her considerable charm.

“You, too,” she said to Curry, leaning forward and kissing him lingeringly on the lips. Then she departed, her smile laden with promise.

The Kid watched her go, a bemused expression on his face.

Heyes regarded his partner with a mixture of disgust and admiration. “Now there’s a woman who knows how to hook a fish,” he reflected.

*****

“I’m tellin’ ya, Heyes, there is a notch on her bedpost with my name on it,” Curry maintained as they waited in the bank for the teller to return.

“Kid, just keep in mind she’s not like most of the women you know. She’s an actress, a divorcee—she uses men for her own selfish purposes…”

“Yeah,” Curry said, a look of pleased anticipation on his face.

The teller, a short, balding man with spectacles, bustled up with the documents and handed them a pen. “If you’ll both just sign and date it here,” he fussily instructed.

While Curry inspected the satchel containing the papers, Heyes signed where indicated, then handed the pen to his partner.

An older man passed by. “Mr. Potts,” the teller nodded.

“Ernest,” the man acknowledged briefly, then continued on his way.

“There you go,” said the Kid, handing the signed papers back to the teller. He and Heyes prepared to leave.

“Don’t take any wooden pesos,” counseled Ernest in a clumsy attempt at humor.

“Gracias,” Heyes replied.

*****

“Gracias,” said Curry with a tip of his hat to the peddler who had given them directions to the bank. They made their way through the crowded marketplace.

“Those two are still following us,” he muttered to Heyes as they walked along.

“We picked up two more over there.” Heyes slid his eyes to the right.

“Philip must have sent the whole army after us,” complained the Kid. “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

“This is no time to stop and ask them,” said Heyes.

“Do you think maybe we should rush?”

“Yes.”

The two began to hurry through the plaza. Their pursuers picked up the pace as well.

Heyes and Curry had no desire for a confrontation. Trying to lose whoever was trailing them, they wove in and out of the market stalls. Overturning a pile of baskets into the path behind them created a measure of chaos as men tripped and fell, but then resumed the chase.

One man circled around in an attempt to cut them off. Shoving him against a stall where an awning collapsed over him, they kept on running.

Rounding a corner, they grabbed a couple serapes from a display. Quickly putting on the simple disguises, they blended into the crowd. Their assailants ran right past them.

Freed from pursuit, Heyes and Curry found their way out of the marketplace and to the bank, where they were surprised to see the helpful peddler standing by the door. They were even more surprised when he pointed a gun at them.

“Oh dandy,” Heyes sighed in resignation, looking around to see their four previous foes run up behind them. “Now it’s time to stop and ask them,” he told the Kid.

The peddler tapped him on the shoulder and held up a badge. “Federales,” he said.

The men who had been following them also held up badges. “U.S. Customs,” announced one. “U.S. Treasury,” identified another.

“Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones,” said the Mexican, “you are under arrest for smuggling stolen securities out of your country into Mexico.”

*****

They had plenty of time while languishing in jail to be thankful that at least it wasn’t a Mexican jail. The U.S. authorities transported them back across the border, where they were mercifully permitted to wire Lom. Meanwhile they just had to hope their true identities would not be discovered and put them into even more trouble than they were already in.

“Come on, Heyes, someday we’ll laugh about this,” the Kid tried to cheer up his partner. “You’ll think of something and we’ll be outta here in no time. There’s nothin’ to worry about.”

“You not worrying is what worries me.”

“I’ll let ya know when we got a serious problem.”

“I know when we got a serious problem. It’s generally about the time you tell me to stop worrying.”

While they were languishing, Mr. Potts from the bank stopped by and identified them as the two men he’d seen accepting the securities from the teller. No one seemed inclined to put much faith in their explanations of it all.

Even the Kid was beginning to worry by the time Lom Trevors arrived from Porterville.

“Has anyone questioned Althea Lamb or Gregory Peterson?” Curry asked the sheriff.

“There is no Gregory Peterson,” Lom informed them.

“What?” Heyes and Curry said in unison.

“And Althea Lamb has been in San Francisco for the last month appearing in sold-out performances every night,” Trevors finished.

“No, she hasn’t,” his friends protested, again with one voice.

“Look, we were with her in Peterson’s office,” Heyes insisted.

“She refused an interview with a local newspaperman,” Curry added. “She didn’t like what he wrote about the notches on her bedpost.”

“She was performing in a benefit for the local orphanage,” Heyes put in.

“None of that checks out, boys,” Lom told them, “and it gets worse. Look at this. It was taken a month ago by the Mexican Federales.”

He handed a photograph through the cell bars. In it two men who appeared to be Heyes and Curry were conversing with three other men. The surroundings clearly placed them in Mexico.

“The Federales arranged to photograph the suspected thieves, who then escaped across the border. They were warned to watch out for another transaction, and recognized you when you returned to Mexico.”

“That’s not us,” Heyes declared emphatically, looking up from his examination of the picture. He passed it to the Kid, who squinted at it and scoffed, “It’s not clear enough to tell for sure who that is. It could be anybody. You know this ain’t the first time someone’s claimed to be us.”

“That’s right,” Heyes concurred. “Remember Billy Black and Caleb White? I’m gettin’ real tired of gettin’ blamed for every new crime that can’t be solved. Maybe this kinda looks like us, but we weren’t even in Mexico last month.”

“That’s right,” Curry confirmed. “In fact, we were in Wyoming. I remember, that’s when we paid a little visit to Devil’s Hole.” His voice trailed off.

“Oh, those boys’ll make great witnesses in court,” Lom prophesied. “Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry couldn’t have been dealing in stolen property in Mexico, your honor, because they were consorting with the Devil’s Hole Gang.”

“But you believe us, Lom,” Heyes said with certainty. “We’re telling the truth.”

“Come on, Lom, we were set up,” Curry realized.

“Yeah,” Lom admitted, “but how do we prove it?”

“What evidence do they have against us?” Curry asked.

“They know thousands of dollars’ worth of securities were funneled out of the bank through the teller, Ernest Melrose. They’re putting a wanted notice out on him.”

“What about the others?” Heyes asked.

“As far as the law is concerned, you are the others,” Lom replied.

“That’s crazy!” Heyes countered.

“Your names were found in Melrose’s records. It looks like you’ve been involved for some time.”

“Uh, Lom, which names?” Curry wondered uneasily.

“Smith and Jones,” Lom reassured them. “Be thankful for small favors.”

“Favors! Lom, someone’s trying to hang us,” Heyes objected.

“Yeah,” the Kid agreed.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll get a death sentence,” Lom comforted them. “Just 20 or 30 years—added onto another 20 when the governor hears about it and cancels your amnesty deal.”

Trevors let them digest that for a moment, then gave them some good news—he’d arranged for them to be released into his custody. “Now I’m counting on you boys not to do anything foolish. My badge is on the line here.”

“Lom, we’ll be on our best behavior,” Heyes promised.

“Mm hmm. Why doesn’t that make me feel a whole lot better?”

*****

Kid Curry pressed into the corner of the alcove, gun in hand, waiting. He listened intently, but the only sounds he heard were his labored breathing and the hammering of his own heart. Pondering his next move, his thoughts sifted methodically through his options. He chanced a quick glance around the corner.

A bullet exploded past him as he wrenched himself back behind the relative safety of the wall.

“Heyes! Heyes, are you all right?” he called, but there was no response.

Refusing to stay trapped in the corner indefinitely, the Kid flung himself toward the opposite wall while firing two shots down the open corridor to cover his crossing. The answering fire he expected did not come.

He took a moment to reload his .45. Through the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, he heard running footsteps echo down the empty hallway. Whirling into the open, he fired after the shadowy figure retreating through a succession of diminishing archways.

Curry followed swiftly but carefully, his boots squeaking as he picked his way along. The smooth bareness of the walls was disrupted only by an occasional empty metal wall sconce.

Coming to a cross corridor, he paused to listen again. Silence. He chose a direction at random and moved forward.

Step by careful step, he advanced, gun before him at the ready. He held the Colt easily, comfortably, yet all his senses strained outward, fully alert to catch the tiniest sign of another presence.

Arriving at another junction, he halted, then sprang through the doorway, but there was nothing to surprise in the empty hallway but a few white mums in a vase sitting in a small niche.

Edging past it, he darted a quick glance around the next corner. Spotting movement, he pulled back, then lunged and fired. A large mirror shattered and pieces of his own reflection tumbled to the floor.

Transfixed by the sight, he stood still, listening through the tinkling of broken glass for any reaction from his adversary. A sudden creak from the staircase behind him caused him to spin and fire with deadly accuracy.

Beyond the curving wrought iron railing, his target hung a moment, spread-eagled against the wall, a look of astonishment on his familiar features, gun hanging useless in his now slack hand. Curry watched in horror as Hannibal Heyes slid down the wall and crashed down the blood-red carpeted stairs.

Curry jerked awake, to hear the chirping of birds outside the open hotel room window. Taking in great gulps of the fresh dawn air, he eased his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there a moment, gathering his strength. He felt exhausted, like he’d been riding hard all night. At least he hadn’t cried out this time—Heyes still slept soundly in the other bed.

The Kid noticed the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the dresser. He’d hoped it would knock him out enough to give him a dreamless night. The effects hadn’t lasted long enough.

He pushed himself to his feet and padded silently across the room. Uncorking the bottle, he took a swig, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to feel the fiery liquid course down his throat.

*****

Curry strode out of the livery stable and down the street to the hotel. Heyes sat on the front porch sipping hot coffee, watching his approach. He raised his mug in greeting as Curry climbed the front steps and took the vacant chair next to him.

“Out for another night ride?” he inquired.

“Just an early morning one,” the Kid replied.

“Are you having trouble sleeping lately?” his friend asked in concern.

“I slept just fine. Got a lot ta think about, you know?”

“I thought we agreed we were going to work on it this morning,” Heyes pointed out. “I don’t like the idea of having a tired partner. Tired partners make mistakes.”

Curry was immediately on the defensive. “What is that supposed to mean? When have I ever made…”

“Hey, hey, hey, take it easy. You want some coffee?” Heyes offered him a cup and the pot he’d appropriated from the hotel kitchen.

The Kid settled back into his chair and accepted the cup. “Yeah,” he sighed. He hadn’t meant to bark at Heyes like that. He’d better watch his step. He didn’t feel up to dealing with awkward questions for which he had no answers.

The question came anyway. “Wanna talk about it?”

No, he definitely did not want to talk about it. If he didn’t talk about it, then he wouldn’t have to think about it, and he’d been putting a lot of effort into not thinking about it.

The Kid wasn’t one to run from his problems. Facing them down had always been his way, whether in a gunfight or any other situation.

This was different, though, from anything he’d experienced before. This dream wasn’t real, and yet it was. It scared the hell out of him. Instinctively he felt it wasn’t something he could just face down. He couldn’t outdraw a feeling, couldn’t set it up on a fence and shoot it off. So maybe by not facing it at all he could make it go away.

Not to mention that Heyes was the last person in the world he wanted to tell the events of this particular dream to. How do you tell your best friend you’re dreaming of killing him?

“I musta talked to half the town,” Curry finally said, deliberately misunderstanding his friend’s solicitous question. “Not one lead to our false Althea Lamb or Gregory Peterson yet. They must be from out of town. Whoever’s behind this was very careful.”

Heyes accepted the distraction at face value. “You agree the most likely reason is revenge?”

“Yeah, you’re right, it’s the only thing that makes any sense, Heyes. This was too well-planned for them to have just picked us at random. It had to be someone that hated us, someone who wanted to pay us back for something.”

“Plenty of people have a grudge against Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, but it’d be easy enough for them to just turn us over to the law. It has to be someone who has it in for Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones, without any knowledge of our real identities.”

“I talked to Lom just now, too, and he spent yesterday tracking down anyone in the area who fits that theory. He came up with three old acquaintances of ours.”

The Kid put his coffee down, his boots up on the porch rail, and his hat over his eyes as he and Heyes settled down to discuss possibilities.

*****

“There she is, Kid—Clara Tucker, known to the boys at the Cactus Saloon as Cozy Clara.”

Heyes and Curry walked up to the plump brunette decked out in purple satin and feathers. She planted her hand on her hip and gave them a crooked smile.

“Well, if it isn’t Smith and Jones. I heard you got into a bit of trouble with the law. If you want any favors, you’re in the wrong saloon.”

“You sound bitter, Clara,” Heyes commented.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she challenged them. “I was set for life. My Percy would have gotten away with embezzling all that money and blaming it on bank robbers if you two hadn’t meddled and exposed him. I’d have been living in a mansion and dressing in furs and jewels instead of having to come back to work at this place.”

“You didn’t used to mind it,” Curry recalled.

“Times change. You think it’s easy for a girl to make a living at my age, with my figure not what it used to be? I’ll never find another man to take care of me the way Percy would have.

“One of the few pleasures I’ll have now is seeing you two sent to prison. Tough life, bad food, bad company—I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, but you know, I’m gonna laugh every time I think of you there. Oh, you bet I’m bitter.”

With a toss of her head, she flounced away.

*****

“Esteban Suarez, Apothecary,” Heyes read the glass storefront. “Quite a comedown from esteemed university professor, wouldn’t you say?”

The Kid followed Heyes into the shop where they spotted Suarez behind the counter. He waited till the single customer left before speaking to them. He wasn’t precisely welcoming, but he didn’t throw them out of the shop either.

“My father was a shopkeeper,” Suarez answered their question about his new occupation. “He wanted more for me, but it is an honest way to make a living,” he shrugged.

“It can’t be a very rewarding life for a scientist with your education,” Heyes noted.

“It is a way for me to remain in touch with chemistry—the only way, now that no university will hire me.”

“You could still be teaching if you hadn’t misappropriated funds to finance your research,” Heyes pointed out.

“My research would have led to important scientific advancements to benefit mankind if your friend the governor hadn’t sent you two to investigate,” Suarez tried to justify himself. “The academic world is a very small one, gentlemen. One I will never be a part of again, thanks to you.”

“I can see how the scandal must have put an end to your career,” admitted the Kid.

Suarez pressed his lips together as if to bite back a retort and resumed his complacent façade. “Now I administer remedies to help the people here, and I can continue my experiments in a small way. It is not the worst place to be.”

“I wonder if some friends of ours ever stopped in here,” Heyes casually suggested. “Gregory Peterson and Althea Lamb?”

Suarez laughed shortly. “I believe this is not the first time you have represented yourselves as friends of Althea Lamb. I have heard the rumors going around.”

“Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you hear,” Heyes responded. “We were framed.”

“Yes, I believe I remember saying something along those lines when I was accused, do you recall?” He looked from Heyes to Curry. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.”

*****

“When they gave us this address for Malcolm Magruder, did you notice those folks looking at us kinda funny?” Heyes asked his partner as they walked up the path to the rundown house on the edge of town.

“Could have somethin’ to do with that other name I heard ‘em usin’,” the Kid surmised.

“Other name? If he’s using an alias, could be we found our man.”

“Didn’t sound like an alias exactly.”

“What was it?”

“Mad Malcolm.”

Just then their knock was answered by a middle-aged man of medium height. His nose was a little long, his waistline a little large, his feet a little small. His clothing was faded and a little baggy. Yet this ordinary little man presented a somewhat extraordinary sight, for a bird perched snugly on each shoulder.

He invited them into his parlor, where they beheld more birds of all kinds, in and out of cages, cheeping, hopping, and even fluttering about the room. Looking about in fascination, they reminded him a bit hesitantly of their previous meeting.

“Oh no, no, I don’t blame you at all,” Malcolm told them sincerely. “Pushing me out of that stagecoach before it crashed saved my life. You couldn’t know I would hit my head on those rocks.”

“Some people wouldn’t be so understanding about losing their sight,” Heyes said sympathetically.

“I try not to think about that part of my life. The accident may have even been a blessing in disguise. I used to be lonely, but everything changed for me one day when a sparrow flew through my window, then another, and another. I gave them all a home. Now folks call me the birdman.”

“That’s not all folks call him,” Curry muttered.

Magruder began to coo to his little friends. Reaching through the bars of a cage to stroke one feathered breast, he exclaimed, “Oho ho, my goodness, Doodle, you’re getting plump.” Giggling, he moved on to another cage, where he stopped to pet a parrot.

Curry glanced uncomfortably at Heyes.

“Uh, we met some friends of yours,” Heyes said conversationally. “Gregory Peterson and Althea Lamb?”

“No no, you must be mistaken,” replied the birdman. “These little creatures are my only friends in the world.” He took one of the little birds from his shoulder and kissed it fondly.

“You know you oughtta write a book,” suggested the Kid.

“Oh, I am. I’m working on one now,” Malcolm said, handing Curry a manuscript.

The Kid flipped through the pages as his cousin looked over his shoulder. “A cookbook?” Heyes questioned in consternation.

“Could I pack you a couple for the road?” Magruder offered, stepping over to a table and lifting a tray bearing some tiny roasted fowls.

“No.”

“No, thank you.”

Heyes and Curry beat a hasty retreat.

“I guess my old friends don’t like squab,” Mad Malcolm remarked mournfully to his birds.

*****

Heyes and Curry entered the room which had so lately served as Gregory Peterson’s office. On their previous visit, it had been comfortably furnished without being ostentatious, but now it was completely devoid of any furnishings at all.

“I don’t know what you expect to accomplish here, Heyes.”

“We have to check everything, Kid,” his partner replied determinedly. “Come on, don’t go getting sloppy on me just because you’re tired.”

“I am not tired,” Curry protested. “If Lom didn’t find anything here and the men from the Customs and Treasury departments didn’t find anything here, it’s a waste of time.”

“They were here after it was abandoned. We’re the only ones who were here before,” Heyes said. “So maybe we saw something, something that didn’t register but that means something. Okay?”

“Okay,” Curry nodded resignedly.

They began to walk around the room as Heyes attempted to reconstruct the scene.

“Look, we were sitting here talking to Peterson,” Heyes remembered. “He was at his desk, right?”

“Right,” the Kid said, getting caught up in Heyes’ plan in spite of himself. “You were sitting there, I was sitting here.”

“Right,” Heyes agreed. They took their places. “Then Althea came in.”

They both looked towards the door.

“Mmm,” murmured Curry, contemplating a lovely memory.

“Don’t look at her,” Heyes instructed, “look around her, look behind her. What do you see?”

“Umm, let’s see,” Curry thought hard, beginning to visualize the items he remembered. “There are some oil paintings over here on the wall, and over there.” He pointed. “There’s an umbrella right here next to the door.”

“Right, right,” Heyes encouraged.

The Kid turned and pointed behind him. “Over here there’s a small statue of a deer.”

“Okay.”

The Kid turned back to face the door. “Oh right, right here there’s a coat rack with a brown leather coat on it.”

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere,” Heyes said.

“It’s just a leather coat!”

“I know, it’s the idea, we just wanna keep things going,” Heyes stressed. “Okay, she came in, they kissed, she wanted a drink…”

“She wants some sherry,” supplied Curry. “He gets up, he goes over to the sideboard, there’re three decanters and some glasses there.”

“You were over here,” Heyes pointed.

The Kid continued his recitation of Peterson’s actions. “He brings it over to her, she’s sitting there, I sit down next to her, things are getting interesting…”

“On the settee, right,” Heyes agreed. “I was standing up next to a chair.”

The Kid moved over to the wall and squatted down in an approximation of his point of view from the vanished settee, trying to jog his memory. “There’s a table here in front of the settee,” he gestured. “On the table there’s a book on sailing ships, a book of photographs, a book on sea travel…”

“Wait, hold it,” Heyes interrupted.

“What?” The Kid looked up at Heyes, who was rubbing his chin and thinking.

“Photographs,” he repeated.

“Yeah, there’s a book of photographs…”

“Ah!” The elusive memory came to Heyes and he pointed to the side. “There was a photograph right here!”

“Yeah?”

“Peterson and Norma Jean Morrow. The picture was taken in front of the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver.”

“So? She was known as the Denver Diva—she must have spent a lot of time in Denver.”

“Yes,” Heyes confirmed slowly, “but at the time of her tragic death, the Brown Palace Hotel hadn’t been built yet. So that picture had to have been taken…” Heyes looked at his partner in sudden realization, “…with a double, someone who looked like Norma Jean Morrow, but wasn’t.”

“A Norma Jean Morrow double, an Althea Lamb double,” the Kid deduced.

“Could that be possible?” Heyes wondered doubtfully. “There was a name on the photograph.” He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up the image he’d seen. “How… Howell… Word, no, Woodward, Howell Woodward Studios.” He opened his eyes. “The name of the photographer.”

“Let’s go talk to Lom.”

*****

Through Lom’s contacts with the local sheriff’s department, Heyes and Curry found out that the photographer’s studio was located in a neighboring town. They rode out there to check it out.

The photographer, Woodward, was quite eager to discuss his business.

“Oh yes, it’s the coming thing, the very latest fashion,” he declared enthusiastically. “You see, we find models who resemble famous people—actors, singers, even political and military leaders, like Abraham Lincoln and General Grant. You’d be amazed how many people will pay to be photographed with them.”

“How fascinating,” Heyes laid on the charm. “Mr. Jones here is an up-and-coming actor himself.”

“Is that so?” Woodward looked interested.

Heyes nudged the Kid, who launched into his rehearsed speech. “Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Hannibal, er, Horatio.”

“Yes, well, perhaps we’re not quite ready for Hamlet.” Heyes glared at his partner and continued his own speech. “In any event, Mr. Jones feels it might help his career if he were seen by the right people to have certain connections in the theatre. A photograph of himself with a famous actress, say Althea Lamb, would be just the thing.”

“Why, you’re in luck! It just so happens we have someone who doubles for Miss Lamb.” Woodward looked pleased to be able to impart such good news.

“That is lucky,” Heyes agreed. “Could you give us an address where we might find the lady?”

“Oh no, I’m afraid all that information is confidential, but I would be happy to arrange a session for you with her here at the studio.”

“We would like to do that eventually of course,” Heyes qualified, “but it’s very important to us to meet with the lady in private first, just to assure ourselves there won’t be any personal conflicts. You know how actors are,” Heyes added confidentially.

“Oh, of course,” Woodward said, though he didn’t look at all sure he knew how they were.

“We’d be very happy to make a down payment on the photography session,” Heyes said, holding out a twenty dollar bill.

Woodward accepted it without hesitation. “In that case, I’m sure I can oblige you. I don’t know the lady’s residence, but I can tell you that she frequents a local establishment called the Twin Pleasures Palace. I am afraid that most of our models need to supplement their pay with other work.”

“I understand,” Heyes said, rising and shaking Woodward’s hand, “and I appreciate your cooperation. Come along, Mr. Jones.”

*****

The Twin Pleasures Palace was a large house with lots of fancy gingerbread and stained glass windows, a discreet sign proclaiming it more than just an ordinary townsman’s residence.

Heyes and Curry rang the bell and the door was immediately opened by a very pretty young lady with a mass of red ringlets tumbling about her shoulders.

“Howdy, fellas,” she welcomed them.

She held a rifle in one gloved hand and was dressed rather oddly in what looked more like a show costume than daily wear—a fancy fringed and beaded short dress, with a hat and boots more like what a cowboy would wear than a lady, yet still managing to look very ladylike. She was the spitting image of a picture Heyes had once seen on a poster advertising a wild west show.

“Did anybody ever tell you you look just like…” he began.

“Let me guess,” she said. “A famous sharpshooter who’s performed in shows all over the country—Buffalo Bill? No, no—Texas Jack Omohundro? No, I give up, who?”

“Annie Oakley,” Heyes mumbled, a trifle deflated.

The Kid grinned. It was rare to see Heyes put out of countenance, and by a lady at that.

With a lilting laugh, she invited them inside.

An astounding sight met their eyes. A piano was playing a lively tune and the sweet voice singing along appeared to be emanating from none other than Lily Langtry. All about the room gentlemen were enjoying the company of exceptionally well-known and well-favored women.

Catching sight of the new arrivals, a few of the women clustered around, vying for the notice of the handsome strangers. Enjoying the attention, Heyes and Curry were a little disappointed when a strong-looking woman in men’s clothing walked over and shooed them away.

“Let ‘em breathe, ladies,” said the apparent Calamity Jane impersonator, looking the men up and down. “Shoot, no wonder they’re so excited,” she said flirtatiously.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Heyes said, his dimples punctuating his most engaging smile. Doffing his hat, he waved it at the room. “What a charmingly unusual place you have here.”

“Glad you think so.” She slapped Heyes enthusiastically on the back, catching his arm as he stumbled forward a step. She was as strong as she looked. “We like to think we match our customers with the women of their dreams.”

“That sounds delightful,” Heyes responded once he’d caught his breath. “Maybe you can help us out then. We heard that an Althea Lamb lookalike worked here.”

“Yes, she did,” said Calamity. “She was right popular, but she left us a month or so ago.”

Scanning the room, Curry asked, “What about Norma Jean Morrow? I always wanted to meet the Denver Diva.”

“Norma Jean’s busy right now, but if you’re partial to singers, Lily Langtry will be available soon for only a slightly higher consideration,” Calamity recommended.

“Just out of curiosity, what are your rates?” queried the Kid.

“Thaddeus,” Heyes warned.

Blue eyes simply gazed artlessly back.

“One hundred dollars,” Calamity answered. At their startled expressions, she explained, “Dreams do come true here, boys, but they don’t come cheap. If you’re looking for a bargain, I can introduce you to Queen Victoria for half the price.”

Heyes tried to get the conversation back on track. “Maybe some other time. What we’d really like is to talk to the Althea Lamb double. Would you happen to know where we could find her?”

“Wait a second, what is this?” Calamity asked suspiciously. “Why are you so all-fired set on seeing her? You’re beginning to sound like lawmen or something.”

Just then Curry spotted Norma Jean Morrow making a grand entrance down the staircase across the room. He started towards her, Heyes at his heels.

“Hey, come back here,” Calamity called. “Stop ‘em, boys!”

Two burly bouncers materialized in front of Norma Jean, shielding her and shoving Heyes and Curry away. Not partial to being shoved, the Kid took a swing at one of them and connected. He went down, but his fellow bruiser punched Curry, before being punched in turn by Heyes.

In the ensuing mayhem of screaming women, breaking furniture, battering fists, and flying bodies, Calamity Jane charged at Heyes, hitting him with a mean right cross, followed by a left hook.

Heyes tried to block her as Curry yelled to him to hit her.

“I can’t hit a lady,” he objected.

“I’m no lady!” Calamity claimed as her wig was snatched from her head, revealing that she was indeed a he.

Throwing his hesitation to the winds, Heyes felled her/him with a right to the jaw and another to the gut.

Curry kept the bouncers occupied while Heyes pinned Calamity to the floor and questioned him.

“Tell me about Althea Lamb’s double—who does she associate with? Do you know any of these names? Cozy Clara Tucker? Mad Malcolm Magruder? Professor Esteban Suarez?”

The first two names elicited merely a shake of the head, but at the third name, a shadow of recognition passed over Calamity’s features.

“It’s Suarez, isn’t it?” Heyes guessed.

“He was a regular customer,” Calamity reluctantly admitted.

The noise level suddenly dropped and Heyes looked around for the Kid. His face fell when he saw that Curry and the bouncers were being restrained by men wearing badges.

“They started it,” cajoled the Kid.

*****

The Kid’s cajoling didn’t work, nor did Heyes’ reasoning, so they resorted to sending for Lom.

Trevors was not best pleased at the necessity of springing his friends from jail yet again.

“You boys plannin’ on visiting every jail up and down the border? You promised your best behavior, or did you forget that? It’d serve you both right if I just hightailed it back to Wyoming.” He stalked angrily down the street away from the jail, his two friends hustling to keep up with his long-legged pace.

“At least we identified Suarez,” Curry contributed helpfully.

Lom was not appeased. “Don’t count on me to get you out of a fix like this again. One more fiasco and you’ll be waiting for your trial in jail.”

“What about Suarez?” Heyes clung to the important point.

“He’s not at his home and his shop is deserted,” Trevors revealed.

“That means he took off as soon as he realized we suspected him,” the Kid decided gloomily. “The Norma Jean double wasn’t any help. The photograph was just another job for her.”

“Well, he’s probably over the border by now,” Lom guessed.

“Mexico,” Heyes considered. Then his eyes lit up with inspiration. “Escuinapa,” he stated.

“Are you sure?” Lom asked.

“No.”

Trevors and Curry looked unhappy with that answer.

“But that’s where he’s from,” Heyes resumed. “I remember him mentioning it when we first met him at the university.”

“I could telegraph the authorities in Mexico, but they’d have no legal basis for taking action at this point,” Lom conjectured.

“That means we’re gonna have to go down ourselves,” the Kid said.

Lom exploded. “What did I just finish saying? You’re talking about sneaking out of the country while in my custody!”

“Lom, it’s the only way,” Heyes urged.

“The only way back to jail!” Reining in his temper, Trevors next tried logical persuasion. “Even if you found him there, you couldn’t do anything to him. We can’t arrest him. There’s nothing to hold him on yet.”

“No, you can’t hold him—officially,” the Kid argued. “We can. We can hold him upside down and shake him till something falls out of his pockets.”

They all glared at each other for a moment, until Lom said, “As your friend, I’m telling you you’re dead wrong on this one, and I’m not gonna let you do it. I’ll follow you around for as long as it takes. You know I can do that.” He let that sink in, then warned, “If you take one step towards Mexico, I’ll throw you right back in jail for your own protection. I’ve done it before.”

Heyes and Curry thought back to the time in Porterville when they were first waiting for word on their prospective amnesty deal, and knew Lom would follow through on his threat.

*****

At a spacious hacienda in Escuinapa, Mexico, “Althea Lamb” waved a telegram at three men.

“It’s from Calamity,” she said. “Two men were there looking for me. They know I’m with you, but she says she didn’t tell them we were down here.”

“I don’t think anyone can find us down here, do you?” Gregory Peterson ventured anxiously.

“You don’t know them like I do,” claimed Esteban Suarez. “I underestimated them once and they hung me up to twist slowly in the wind for all the academic world to see.”

“They’d never leave the U.S. in their current circumstances. They’d be crazy to risk that,” Ernest Melrose asserted.

“Maybe,” Suarez conceded, “but I’d feel better with some additional help.”

Peterson objected. “I don’t think we should bring in anyone new.” He wavered, reconsidering. “Unless you know someone we can trust, someone you’ve worked with before.”

“I just might,” Suarez said with a satisfied smile as an idea occurred to him.

*****

Heart pounding, sweat bathing his face, Kid Curry stood in an empty hallway where a few white mums in a vase sat in a small niche.

Edging past it, he darted a quick glance around the next corner. Spotting movement, he pulled back, then lunged and fired. A large mirror shattered and pieces of his own reflection tumbled to the floor.

Transfixed by the sight, he stood still, listening through the tinkling of broken glass for any reaction from his adversary. A sudden creak from the staircase behind him caused him to spin and fire with deadly accuracy.

Beyond the curving wrought iron railing, his target hung a moment, spread-eagled against the wall, a look of astonishment on his familiar features, gun hanging useless in his now slack hand. Curry watched in horror as Hannibal Heyes slid down the wall and crashed down the blood-red carpeted stairs.

Kid Curry slept on.

*****

Kid Curry sat scribbling a note at the desk in the hotel lobby. If he wrote quickly enough, there’d be no time to think of changing his mind. There was nothing to distract him, as he was the room’s sole occupant at this hour of the morning. He finished the missive and laid the pen down. Rising from the chair, he turned, paper in hand, then froze when he saw Heyes walk in.

“What are you doing?” his cousin asked curiously.

“You’re up early,” the Kid evaded.

“I heard you leave the room.” Heyes noticed his name on the page his partner was holding and reached for it. “Is this for me?” He tweaked it out of the Kid’s loose grasp.

Curry initiated a move as if to stop him, then dropped his arm and waited silently.

Heyes scanned the sheet and began to read aloud in a low voice. “I have a better shot alone. Don’t worry. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.” He crumpled the paper in his fist.

“You wanna tell me what the hell this means?!” he demanded in a low tone. He stared furiously at the Kid.

Curry said nothing. He had trouble meeting his partner’s eyes.

“You were just gonna go off to Mexico and leave me behind?” Heyes queried disbelievingly.

The Kid finally found his voice. “All right now, look, it’s the smartest thing to do. The two of us together make it too easy for Lom. I can make it on my own…”

“Smartest? Who elected you the brains of this outfit? Or is this some kind of big bravado move by the big important gunfighter? Well, just forget it.”

“I already planned everything,” Curry desperately pleaded. “I’ve got my route all mapped out. You just gotta stay here and keep Lom busy.”

“You call that a plan? I got a better plan—I am going with you!”

“Damn it, Heyes!”

Heyes gritted his teeth and spoke in a measured tone. “I am going to assume that all of this is because you are suffering from utter exhaustion…”

“Heyes,” Curry tried to interrupt.

“…And you shut up!” Heyes finished. He looked searchingly at Curry, who looked away again. Heyes resumed, “If you want some time on your own after we play out this hand, we’ll work something out then. But my neck is on the block here, too, and I am going down to Escuinapa whether you like it or not.”

Curry had no answer to that.

Heyes turned to leave. “You coming?” he asked and walked out of the room.

Curry gazed after him bleakly, the shades of his dreams dimming his red-rimmed blue eyes.

*****

Lom met them on the hotel steps. “Howdy,” he said. “Can I buy you boys some breakfast?”

“Why not?” Heyes gave in with a good grace.

After breakfast the graciousness began to get a little strained. Lom stuck to them like a cocklebur in a horse’s tail.

No matter where they went, there he was. They stopped in the general store; Lom was stocking up on canned tomatoes and blackstrap molasses. They visited the blacksmith; Lom’s horse was suddenly in need of shoeing. They even ducked into Milady’s Millinery Shop; Lom confessed he’d been meaning to buy his mother a present.

“I didn’t know Lom had a mother.”

“Everybody’s got a mother, Kid. Thought I explained all that to you about twenty years ago.”

Finally they dropped into the barber shop; Lom was considering whether he ought to shave off his moustache. He decided to keep it, but reckoned he might as well treat himself to a proper shave while Heyes and Curry were getting their hair trimmed.

Reclining in a comfortable chair, his face swathed in warm towels, Lom relaxed a bit more than he’d intended and dozed off. When he came to, his friends were gone. He was in little doubt as to their destination.

“Escuinapa,” he murmured.

*****

Four people in the hacienda kept watch from behind lace curtains as Heyes and Curry crept cautiously across the grounds.

“They found us,” said Althea Lamb.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Suarez reassured her. “We’re ready for them.” He turned as two more men joined them at the window. Both were about six feet tall, 160-165 lbs., about 30 years of age. One had brown hair and eyes, the other blond curls and blue eyes.

“You can intercept them in the front room,” Suarez addressed them. “You see what they’re wearing—be sure you dress to match first.”

The group of four watched them leave the room, then turned back to the window. Heyes and Curry were taking their time, scouting each move thoroughly before making it.

Suarez nodded to Ernest Melrose, who left quietly. The plan was for him to slip outside and around to the front door behind Heyes and Curry, where he would use the outside bolt they had installed to lock their victims inside.

The trap was about to spring. All they had to do now was wait.

*****

Drawing their guns, Heyes and Curry entered the hacienda through the unlocked front door and found themselves in a large, elaborately decorated foyer. Full-length mirrors in ornate gilt frames hung on the walls and a plush carpet covered the floor. Facing the entrance, a wide staircase wound upstairs past an empty metal wall sconce to a hallway that disappeared through a succession of archways.

They gazed at their surroundings, Heyes in calculation, Curry in dawning recognition. He lowered his gun and pivoted in a slow circle, his nightmare taking solid shape around him. Refusing to face it had been a futile tactic; here it was facing him after all. Curry prayed it wasn’t too late to find a way out.

His words tumbled over each other in his haste to get them out. “Heyes, we gotta get outta this place.”

“What?” his partner asked in astonishment.

“I been havin’ these dreams,” he shakily admitted. “I can’t go through with this. If we stay here, somethin’ terrible’s gonna happen.” He ran back to the entrance.

“Kid. Kid!” Heyes’ frantic whisper almost turned into a shout.

The Kid, however, was unable to budge the door. “It’s locked… bolted,” he reported as he returned to Heyes’ side.

“He knows we’re here,” Heyes guessed. “We don’t have any choice now.” Seeing the distraught look on Curry’s face, he patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Hey, easy, it’ll be all right.”

Curry solemnly regarded their reflections in the mirrors. Hearing a noise, the pair swung around to behold another mirror image at the top of the stairs, an image not of glass, but of flesh.

Frozen in disbelief, they stared into their own eyes. Heyes’ image looked back with a cold smile, Curry’s with grim determination. The images raised their guns and fired, shattering a mirror as the partners ducked aside just in time.

Curry returned fire and the doubles fled. The chase was on.

Heyes ran up the stairs, Curry close behind. Stopping at the top, Heyes hugged one wall as his partner positioned himself on the opposite side. At Heyes’ nod, both men dove around their corners, but the Kid had to pull back to avoid a gunshot. He returned two shots and waited. It was then he noticed Heyes had vanished.

He called his name almost frantically, but there was no answer. Fighting off a numbing dread, Curry set off through the empty hallways of his dream.

*****

Absorbed in his search, Heyes eased himself down another twisting stairway. At its foot was one of the ubiquitous archways. Stepping through, he stopped short, face to face with his double entering from the other side.

Just as the gun was aimed his way, Heyes grabbed the man’s wrist, forcing his arm up so that he fired harmlessly into the air. The two men struggled desperately, each fighting an adversary physically equal to himself, neither able to gain the upper hand.

Finally wrenching an arm free, one of them smashed his gun down upon his opponent’s head, the blow knocking his foe senseless to the floor. Gasping for breath, the man still standing closed his eyes and slumped for an instant against the wall. Then leaning heavily on the railing, he remounted the stairs.

*****

Kid Curry pressed into the corner of the alcove, gun in hand, waiting. He listened intently, but the only sounds he heard were his labored breathing and the hammering of his own heart. He pondered his next move, his thoughts sifting methodically through his options. He chanced a quick glance around the corner.

A bullet exploded past him as he wrenched himself back behind the relative safety of the wall.

“Heyes!” he called, but there was no response.

Refusing to stay trapped in the corner indefinitely, the Kid flung himself toward the opposite wall while firing two shots down the open corridor to cover his crossing. The answering fire he expected did not come.

He took a moment to reload his .45. A shot ricocheted off the wall beside him.

His heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears, he whirled into the open and fired after the shadowy figure retreating through a succession of diminishing archways.

Curry followed swiftly but carefully, his boots squeaking as he picked his way along. The smooth bareness of the walls was disrupted only by an occasional empty metal wall sconce.

Step by careful step, he advanced, gun before him at the ready. Each step felt harder to take than the last. His hand, customarily rock steady whenever holding a gun, began to shake. Curry regarded it curiously as if the hand were some foreign object totally detached from his own body.

A sense of unreality enveloped him, prompting the thought that he must be dreaming again. This couldn’t be happening; it wasn’t possible. Surely he would awaken soon to find everything was normal as it should be.

Yet he had noticed variations from his dreams, little things that told him this time was different, this time he was awake.

He halted at a junction, rooted in place, overcome by misgivings. How could he go on? He knew what would happen if he went on. He had seen it happen so many times in his dreams. He couldn’t bear to see it happen for real.

However, neither could he just stand there and do nothing. He had no choice. He had to go on. He had to find Heyes, find their enemies. No matter how unsettling the events that appeared to be unfolding around him, he had to hang onto the belief that no dream could make him shoot Heyes. Dreams were not real.

At least he hoped they weren’t.

Curry forced himself to step swiftly through the doorway, but there was nothing to surprise in the hallway but an empty vase sitting in a small niche.

Edging past it, he huddled against the wall, considering what he would encounter around the next corner. If circumstances were indeed following the pattern of his dream, he dare not hesitate. He lunged and in the split second it took him to register the sight of his own image aiming a gun at him, he fired. His double tumbled to the floor.

The Kid stood a moment, taking in the chilling sight. A sudden creak from the staircase behind him caused him to spin and aim his Colt at the figure standing beyond the curving wrought iron railing. He froze, gazing directly into Heyes’ dark eyes.

Or were they Heyes’ eyes? In the deceptive light of the shadowy halls, Kid Curry couldn’t be sure, but he couldn’t take the chance. The scene replayed in his memory—Heyes shot, reeling, falling down the stairs.

In that instant of deliberation, the image of Heyes raised his hand and shot the Kid instead.

Curry felt the bullet pierce him just below his shoulder. He felt the impact hurl him back against the wall, felt his gun drop from his hand, felt his knees buckle, no longer able to support his weight. It must be a great weight to cause him to feel so heavy. His whole body felt heavy. He could barely hold up his head, it felt so heavy, even though his hat had fallen off so there seemed no reason for the heaviness.

He knew the reason for the pain, though, and the oozing blood he encountered when he pressed his hand to his wound. Supported by the wall at his back, he waited for the next shot that would finish him off.

The image of Heyes smiled a smile that looked not at all like Heyes’ dimpled grin. Taking his time, as if to savor each excruciating moment, he descended the staircase and approached the Kid. Standing before him, he calmly took aim.

Curry looked directly into the gun that would mean his death and braced himself for the shot. He heard the explosion, but strangely felt nothing. Instead he saw Heyes’ double plunge across his outstretched legs and crumple to the floor.

Curry looked up and saw Heyes, his Heyes, standing on the staircase, holstering the gun that had just fired.

Heyes ran down the carpeted stairs and over to the Kid, kneeling before him in concern.

“God, Kid, what happened? Never mind, you’re all right, you’re gonna make it.” Soothing himself as much as Curry, he gingerly pulled aside the blood-soaked shirt. “Let me just check you over.” He eased the Kid away from the wall so he could examine the wound from the back.

“I had a shot at him,” the Kid weakly announced.

“Well, why didn’t you shoot him?” Heyes demanded, the words providing a release for his pent-up anger and fright. Finished with Curry’s back, he gently cradled his head and looked probingly into the clouded blue eyes.

”I thought he was you,” the Kid explained. “I figured if I had to choose between you or me taking a bullet, I’d choose me.” He laughed feebly at the cosmic joke his dream had played on him.

“God,” Heyes repeated in a whisper, bowing his head thankfully against the Kid’s, holding close the friend he’d so nearly lost.

“Hold it right there, everyone,” they heard a deep voice say above the sound of footsteps.

Heyes craned his neck to see what was going on. Suarez and his companions were being held at gunpoint by several men who appeared to be Mexican lawmen, and who began issuing orders in Spanish. They were accompanied by an American sheriff.

“It’s Lom,” Heyes told the Kid in surprise.

“Oh no, we’re in trouble now,” came the worried response.

*****

The three friends sat around a restaurant table enjoying a hearty dinner. Now that they were back in the States and the names of Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones had been cleared of all charges, Heyes and Curry had decided to treat Lom to a small celebration.

“This is a real fine meal, boys,” Trevors said around a mouthful of steak. “I’ll be sure and return the favor next time you’re in Porterville. Maybe the Kid will be able to manage a knife and fork by then.”

“Anytime, one hand or not,” the Kid laughed, indicating his sling. The doctor had patched him up, but with his right arm out of commission while he healed, he was forced to make some adjustments in the everyday tasks he generally took for granted.

The hardest thing for him to get used to was having to depend on his partner’s gun for a while, but he put up with even that inconvenience without complaint. The vision of him gunning down Heyes was still fresh enough in his mind that he was grateful just to still have a partner.

“I think the occasion calls for a toast,” Heyes said, raising his glass. The other two followed his example. “Here’s hoping not all our dreams come true.”

“Hear, hear,” assented Lom and the Kid, and the clinking of their glasses underscored the fervent wish.

THE END


End file.
